Recompense
by chossytoss
Summary: Shepard and Liara, start to finish.


**A/N:** Hope you guys are in this for the long haul. Enjoy, and thank you for reading :)

* * *

Liara intrigues him, at first.

It all looks different when everything starts, when his only job is to command his ship and make a rogue Spectre answer for his crimes. When his greatest worry is fucking up his own Spectre status, or letting Saren attack another colony on his watch, or having one of his tenuous alien alliances explode in his face.

Liara he counts as a friend, reclusive though she may be. She is asari, alien, a little too shy and a touch naïve, but intelligent and brave when it counted. Beautiful, too, of course – he'd have to be dead not to notice, and his Gunnery Chief certainly never misses an opportunity to tease him about it.

He does care for her, wants her safe just as he wants all of his friends safe, but it is never more than that. She intrigues him. That is all he can afford. Maybe one day – long after the dust clears and all their lucky hearts are still beating – he could think about more. But not now, not with his future and mission and enemy all hanging in the balance.

Not now.

He has a Spectre to chase.

* * *

Virmire shatters any illusions of a peaceful future.

He never gets to bury Ashley Williams. He will not rest.

He loses interest in anything other than making Saren bleed.

It isn't until the end, until he limps from the wreckage that was Sovereign and finds Anderson tending to his beaten squadmates, that Shepard realizes how completely his shy brave beautiful asari had earned his trust. His entire crew he respects, all of them vital and loyal and stronger than he could ever have hoped for.

But Liara he trusts, beyond anything else.

It surprises him.

* * *

Alchera rips them all into tiny flaming pieces that can never fit back together. There is nothing left but debris and corpses. Nothing but unanswered questions, nothing but empty rage that burns and burns and burns until even that is eclipsed by gaping pain.

Shepard is dead.

Even saying it to herself makes her physically ill.

Shepard is dead. Spaced. Suffocated. Gone. They _killed_ Shepard.

On the ground, stumbling from their escape pods, Kaidan finds his mark. Liara says nothing as he assaults Joker – furious and confused – shouting that if he'd followed orders and left the bridge and acted like a soldier for once in his fucking life, Shepard would still be alive. She says nothing as Kaidan snaps, words no longer enough, breaking half the bones in Joker's face.

But she doesn't stop him, either.

(If anyone was keeping track, they might have called this the beginning.)

* * *

It is the cold determination in Miranda Lawson's voice, more than anything else, that seals Liara's decision.

It is foolish, cowardly, dangerous – _wrong –_ but she hands the body of her dead commander to a sworn enemy because she cared about Shepard far more than she ever hated Cerberus, and her anger at the Shadow Broker for his disgusting interference has left her bolder, darker. Driven. She has nothing left to lose.

Miranda does not sound malicious. Nor deranged. Nor power-hungry. Arrogant, maybe, and aloof, but not delusional. She doesn't sound like an enemy.

Liara makes her deal with the devil, and then she leaves.

She has her own demons to fight.

* * *

When the first rumors of Shepard reborn and hunting Collectors with his new Normandy find their way to her network, she finds it harder and harder to sleep.

She could find him, send him a message, tell him to come to Illium – anything. But it would put her at risk, and everything she had been working for. It would put _him_ at risk.

She is scared and relieved and curious and guilty all at once, and wants nothing more than to see his face and talk like they used to and act like nothing has changed, but she no longer has any use for such fantasies. No use for stupid hopes or childish pride or promises of safety.

So she stays.

* * *

Shepard feels very little for Miranda, at first.

She is his XO, sure, and definitely no stranger to combat, but he has trouble identifying her as anything more than a mouthpiece. Someone to remind him that the Alliance discarded him, or distrusted him, or whatever it is they were calling it. That the Illusive Man might be a self-important bastard, but a thorough one. Resources, intel, backup - if he needed something, she would provide. Cost was no issue, financially or otherwise.

Someone to remind him that he had no other choice. Someone to remind him that he wears very different colors now.

After Illium, and Oriana, something changes. Some edge softens. She is quieter. Listens more. Comes with him on missions because she wants to, not because it makes tactical sense. She still criticizes him when he's being downright reckless or headstrong, but she also worries. She gives a shit.

He likes it.

* * *

Shepard leaves Nos Astra knowing that the last link to his past is finally broken.

Two years, two short years that he cannot even remember, and everything has moved on without him. He cannot reconcile the kind and passionate Liara with this colder, brooding, more distant version of the girl he once knew.

She isn't coming with him. She won't. He is no longer a part of her life.

He can't help but feel betrayed, even when he knows he shouldn't. It's not fair, it really isn't, and he knows it. She lost a parent, lost friends, lost him – and she spent two years dealing with all of that while he was more or less under the knife. It isn't fair to hold her to dead loyalty.

Horizon and his encounter with Kaidan irritated him, baffled him, made him want to shoot geth or Collectors or whoever the fuck else was waiting in line to kill everyone.

Liara's rejection doesn't make him angry. It just hurts.

* * *

The more time he spends around Miranda, the more he realizes how alike they really are.

She hears him, reads him, knows the difference between him needing backup and him needing perspective. Understands the rage that builds under the surface, the burning and the focus and the absolute _sickness_ it stirs should he be left helpless. Never pities him when he is. Never flinches at the violence. Never trusts without reason. Never shies away.

She possesses a fierceness that he connects with, admires, even relies on. And she knows it.

He likes that even more.

Somewhere along the way, he stops thinking of her as Cerberus at all.

"_Don't_. Touch me."

The airlock goes deadly silent, his squad's attention suddenly on whatever was unfolding between their commander and their XO. Apparently she had smacked his hand away, furious, determinedly dismissing his concern.

And Shepard, somehow, is the only one brave (stupid?) enough to keep talking after she had made her desire to be left alone so painfully obvious.

"Miranda," he warns calmly, tilting his head.

"I told you I was fine, Commander. I meant it."

"I could order you to see Chakwas, if you want to play it that way."

"The brig is closer. Save you the trouble," she returns, voice betraying the strain she was trying to suppress. The way she obviously favors her right side as they wait for decon clearance doesn't help. Nor does the sweat that glosses her forehead, sticking, blinking into eyes that are not as sharp as usual.

The slug that hit her had not pierced her armor, light as it was, but it did rip through her shields and send her into the ground – hard. She'd certainly been shaken, Garrus having to drag her upright again, but she pushed on.

Things got complicated once the adrenalin stopped. Broken ribs will do that.

"Alright Lawson, but I'm letting Jack draw on your face if you pass out."

In the end, they arrive at a sort of compromise – she does not pass out, but the constriction of the elevator doors sliding shut and the space and the air and stabbing pain overwhelms her, and her knees hit the ground with one hand clutching at Shepard for support. He - despite his jest - doesn't hand her over to Chakwas, or Jack. Instead he helps her the rest of the way to her own quarters, safe from the curiosity and gossip of the rest of the ship.

As he sits, silent at her bedside as he replays the moment she went down over and over and over again as she rests, a knot settles in his gut – aching, clenched, fearful. Right to his bones.

There is nothing he would not do for this woman.

* * *

The night before hitting the relay, their last night of waiting and solitude, she comes to find him as he knew she would – smirking even as his hands find the still-healing bruising on her torso.

She is rough and open and alluring when laid bare, and she shares his bed until morning breaks and they both must do what they must.

She tells him, soft and honest and only for him, that she does not want to leave.

This he likes best.

* * *

The Illusive Man does not take kindly to their parting of the ways.

In the span of a few minutes, he loses an entire cell of Cerberus. His pet project, his chance at unlocking Reaper secrets, his symbolic hero, and his best operative – all gone. Defected.

She grants him one last audience. Guarded. Final.

"Operative Lawson," he greets with his usual coolness, the use of her ranking intentionally transparent. A reminder. "I take it there's no chance you'll reconsider?"

"None," she responds, equally cold, arms folded across her chest.

"I figured as much. You never were one for half measures."

"I know. It's why you recruited me. So you say."

"You chose to join. So why leave?"

"Because Cerberus lost its way a long time ago. Because Shepard's loyalty comes without strings. Because every reason I had to trust you was a lie."

Illusive Man is silent, considering, eyeing her with a distaste she does not recognize.

"I see. So you let one misguided Spectre turn you against everything you stood for."

"He is far more than that. Something you'll never understand."

"Spare me the romantic philosophy. Or are you going to tell me next that you were stupid enough to fall in love with him?"

She meets his accusatory stare, frowning, choosing her words carefully as she always does.

"Yes."

Pause.

"For fuck's sake, Miranda."

* * *

With the Collectors destroyed, his crew and ship repaired, he can no longer delay the reckoning that awaits him on Earth. He promised he would turn himself into the Alliance, and now there is nowhere left to run. He must answer for his sacrifice of thousands of batarians to delay the Reapers.

It is something he is forced to do alone.

He wishes – goddamn how he wishes – that he could just retire, give up his post and his duty and his future, give up everything for a chance to be with the woman that left her life behind for him. That he could just leave, take her somewhere, away from war, where he could watch a thousand sunrises and never tire of it once.

Wishes he could go home. But he can't.

He can't.

* * *

After six months of having absolutely nothing to do but befriend his vastly overqualified babysitter, he starts to think that maybe – maybe, if he played it right – he could convince James Vega to allow him communication access for an ex-Cerberus "informant".

Because if his political enemies don't flay him alive, then the batarians certainly will, and if there was a chance that even _talking _to her could relieve just a fraction of the isolation and doubt and guilt, he'd take it.

He never gets that chance.

(And prays that she is nowhere near Earth as he watches it burn.)

* * *

Something stalls in his chest as he realizes exactly who Cerberus is chasing on Mars.

He forgets that he is supposed to be investigating, forgets that reinforcements are probably not far behind, forgets that Vega does not recognize the asari and has half a mind to shoot her.

"Liara?"

She finishes her pursuers with two rounds to each skull, unfazed, unflinching. Dead at her feet.

"Shepard," she greets, the moment passed, smile warming him even as they get straight to business.

The reunion is unexpected, rushed, shadowed by the threat of Cerberus, but it is a reunion nonetheless – this time she will follow him wherever the Reapers lead him. The relief that sweeps through him as she rattles off facts about Protheans and archives and unfinished superweapons is powerful enough that he misses almost half of what she says.

She is safe. She can help. She is his crew again.

That turns out to be just about the only redeeming thing about the entire planet.

* * *

He is catching up with Dr. Chakwas – once again assigned to the Normandy _thank god _– when his new comm specialist breezes through the medbay doors, clearly looking for him.

"Commander – I'm sorry to interrupt. I have an update on the comm traffic assignment you asked me to look into. Should we…talk somewhere else?"

Features brightened, shoulders stiffened, he shakes his head with a hint of impatience.

"It's fine, Doc here knew Miranda. What did you find?"

"EDI found it, actually. Though I'm afraid it's not entirely good news."

"Tell me."

"Four months ago an Illium Law Enforcement detective named Anaya logged an investigation into a disturbance on one of the docking bays in Nos Astra. The shipping manifest archives were hacked into, and a dock worker was found with a broken neck. Investigation into his financials show him receiving an absurd amount of credits from one Henry Lawson. Detective Anaya noted in her report that she suspects either Cerberus or Miranda Lawson was involved somehow, though there are no records of her entering or leaving Illium at all."

Shepard, though failing to hide his displeasure at this news, is not surprised.

"I doubt she'll be using her real name in Citadel space anytime soon. Though Anaya would recognize her face, at least – they met when we were tracking Samara. Was there any video footage?"

"No. Liara tells me Illium isn't known for its trade scrutiny. There are no cameras on the docking bays."

"And this was four months ago? Nothing since then?"

"No, Commander. I'm sorry," adds Traynor, lowering her eyes to the floor.

He thinks for a moment, swallowing the urge to demand that she check again. If Traynor, EDI, and Liara with her Shadow Broker network were all involved, and Miranda was still MIA – then she didn't want to be found. She was on the run, and unable or unwilling to contact him and expose herself. Best case. Worst case?

He cuts that thought off before it can even start. He can't afford to torture himself that way.

"Dismissed, Specialist. Thank you."

Alone again with his chief medical officer, it is much more difficult to hide his disappointment.

"I'm sure you two will meet again, before this war is over. I doubt she'd let you have all the fun, Commander."

He snorts, truly thankful to have her and her unique perspective back onboard.

"Maybe. Not if she gets herself killed first. That stuff with her father, and that dock worker? I know she loves a good risk now and then, but that was careless. It's not like her."

"Maybe she was desperate. Or wounded," she adds lightly, as an afterthought.

Shepard sighs.

"Not helping, Doctor."

"No, I suppose not. Though if it's any consolation, based on the way she left the Illusive Man, I'd say that she loves _you_ more than anything."

It's a nice sentiment, and he appreciates the point she is making, but in the back of his mind he guesses that the only person Miranda truly loved more than anything was her sister.

(He is right, of course, but not in ten thousand years did he think she would ever have to choose.)

* * *

"Major. _What_ happened?" demands Chakwas, instantly bringing a distracted Kaidan – covered in grime and sweat and more than one kind of blood – back into focus.

"I – I don't know, we were with that Justicar then we split up, we were on our way back but there was another ambush – I don't – Shepard had me covering his flank, I turned around and one of those _things_ had Liara –"

"What things?" she cut across, having a terrible feeling about the answer.

"Asari mutants. Banshees. The Reapers were breeding them."

"_Bastards_. Where's Shepard?" she snaps, running her omni-tool over Liara's unmoving body.

"I don't know. I assumed he was right behind me."

She waves a hand, dismissive.

"We'll worry about it later. Here – I need this armor to come off. Now."

Alenko falters, hesitant. Alarmed by the urgency in her voice. Chakwas senses his sudden shift in attitude without even sparing him a glance.

"Her trachea is damaged, she isn't breathing properly. I need access to her chest. Can you help, Major?" she tries again, hoping the change in tone would straighten his head.

(It does.)

"Of course," he answers quickly, moving around to the other side of the cot, fingers shaking only slightly as he tries to locate the clasps to the asari's chestplate.

"How long has she been unconscious?" asks Chakwas, making much faster work of the shoulder guards than her counterpart, hands skilled from decades of medical training. The same medical training that had her worrying about concussion and hemorrhage and pneumothorax and other wonderful things.

(She does not voice these concerns aloud, as Kaidan does not need a reminder of his own brush with death courtesy of head trauma.)

"Not sure exactly – couple of minutes? Shepard crippled the banshee but it threw Liara aside like she was nothing, maybe thirty feet through the air."

"She was awake on the shuttle?"

He finally gets the damn chestplate off, revealing ugly black and purple bruising where the banshee had pinned her with its twisted imitation of hands. It snakes around the entirety of her throat, disappearing somewhere beneath her shoulders.

"Barely. She kept coughing up blood but she was really out of it."

Chakwas, doing something he did not recognize over his injured crewmate's chest, released a breath, disproving.

"She is remarkably lucky that abomination didn't snap her neck completely."

"They do a lot worse than that," he mutters, tasting the disbelief and disgust on his tongue as he remembers watching Shepard drag one of the Ardat-Yakshi maidens away, screaming in rage and grief as her sister was destroyed by those monsters.

"Well she can thank the both of you when she wakes up. I've stabilized her airway for now, but I want to monitor her overnight. We'll assess the damage in the morning."

"Right. You sure she'll be okay?"

"I am quite good at my job, Major," she reminded him with a smile, only half-teasing.

"Sorry."

"I'll do my best. You can come back tomorrow."

"Thanks, Doc."

Hours and hours later, with half the ship asleep, she wakes to find Shepard standing alone in the shadows of the medbay, silent. Shrouded in dark, only half of his face is illuminated by the faint blue glow of the pod lights. He is still wearing his armor. Dark stains slash across his cheek and nose, smeared, wiped away hastily then forgotten.

He senses Chakwas approach, but – curiously – he says nothing at all.

"Commander?"

Slowly, with a gentleness that surprises even himself, he reaches a hand out to Liara's. Her palm is warm, soft against the toughened callouses of his own. He turns it over once, twice, blue skin smooth against his fingers. He locks his fingers with hers. She doesn't move.

Then he lets go.

"You should get some rest, Shepard," she calls out quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever this was. Not wanting to worsen whatever was eating him.

(It is the same choking fear he felt on Mars, except Lesuss was worse. So much worse.)

The look he gives the doctor when he finally acknowledges her is hard, blazing. Jaw clenched tightly. He makes a jerking motion as if reaching for Liara's hand again, but he stops halfway. Drops his arm.

All she gets for a response is –

"I can't do this without her."

* * *

His second encounter with Miranda on the Citadel is a much needed reprieve, but – though longer than the last – leaves him with far more questions than answers.

Her confession that she once wanted to implant him with some form of control chip bothers him very little, as it is nothing he could not have guessed himself, and they are so far past that point in their lives together that it is almost cute that she was so worried about it.

(He thinks about telling her just that, so he could finally _touch_ her again, but her confession isn't done.)

She needs his Spectre codes. And she won't tell him why.

She cannot tell him – of all people – a single damn thing about what she is doing or where she is going. He cannot go with her, even if she let him, and he cannot bring her back to the Normandy, even if she wanted to come. He will be forced to let her fight her battles alone, to indulge her recklessness as she refuses his help – again.

It scares him.

(This he does tell her.)

But there is no other option. Their wars lay on different fronts. He has to let her go.

* * *

"Hey," he calls softly, door sliding shut behind him with a low hiss as he stepped into her quarters.

"Hello, Shepard," answers Liara, the warmth in her small smile more than enough to compensate for the hoarse rasp that was her voice, not yet healed from her scare with the banshee. The deep brown and blue that wrapped around her throat is still visible – faint and strained, but visible – in the dim lighting.

"You doing okay?"

"Dr. Chakwas seems to think so," she concedes, typing away at her terminal as she spoke. "Though if she keeps denying me solid food, losing my mind seems like a strong possibility."

"There's more than one kind of liquid diet, you know."

"Mm. You are terrible, Commander. I could have sworn that sort of thing was against Alliance regulations."

"It is. But so is housing the Shadow Broker, and you don't hear me complaining, T'Soni."

Another smile, eyes that held his longer than they had to.

"A fair point."

He sighs as she returns to her station, mood sobering as he considers what he is about to do.

"Listen. Liara. I – need to ask you a favor."

Intrigued, eager, the expression she wears is a familiar one.

"How can I help?"

"I need you to flag my Spectre codes. If you can. I want to know about anything you find."

Liara studies him for a moment, with lines tightened around his eyes, serious, brow furrowed intently. It is all too easy to guess the source of his stress. She stops typing.

"You gave them to Miranda."

If he had any doubts about this decision, he keeps them to himself. His gaze doesn't falter.

"I want to know where she goes."

"I see," she answers, turning away from him again, and there is something in her voice that makes him think that maybe she really doesn't. If anyone else under his command had used that tone, he'd have called them out right there.

But she isn't anyone else. He releases a breath, hesitant. Tired.

"I know it sounds desperate. It is."

There is an honesty there, a hint of the fear that burned him, flashing behind the dark. The pause that stretches between them makes him feel as if she can see right through him, right through his skin and his bones and into his mind.

"No," she finally offers, certain, measured. "It sounds like you."

"I love her," he responds, on impulse, instinctive, unsure why he had to say it even as the words left his mouth.

She wonders if he can sense the sadness that chases her smile.

"I know you do, Shepard."

* * *

Thessia falls.

Unwavering resolve chips away. Flickering hope smolders into ash. Absolute truth sours into gray. It is only his unadulterated rage at the betrayal of Cerberus that is keeping them all afloat, and even that is not enough to overpower the oppressive, constricting loss that claws at his chest as he descends the elevator to the crew deck.

He has to check on Liara. Has to address the void. The failure. Has to help her somehow. Has to do _something_.

He finds her alone in the silence of her quarters, shoulders slumped as she sits on the edge of her untouched bed. Normally fidgety hands stilled, eyes and face completely dry. She makes no movement or sign that she heard him enter, nor does she glance in his direction. She does not say a single thing.

Shepard has seen Liara nervous, angry, righteous, brave – _young_ – but never has he seen her like this. Never despondent. Never raw.

This was so much worse than that fucking banshee on Lesuss, worse than Noveria, worse even than killing her own _mother_. Her world, her home, her entire culture hit with shockwaves of death, broken open and torn down by lies and cruelty and destruction.

(He would sooner rip his own heart out than watch her endure this kind of pain.)

Whatever words he could possibly have offered stick and die on his tongue as he crosses her cabin, lowering himself onto the sunken edge of her bed. The proximity is closer than they have ever been, but her features register no change, brooding gaze still locked on the floor.

Unable to bear the paralysis any longer, his fingers graze under her chin, pulling gently, forcing her attention away from the agony that consumes her. He brushes a thumb over her bottom lip, and it is this gesture of affection – intimate, warm – that compels her to finally look at him. The intensity and the fear and the despair reflected back at him makes something drop in his stomach, some weight that kept him grounded. He leans closer, breath caught in his throat, pressing his mouth against hers. It is slow, sweet. Unexpected.

(_Wrong_, a voice screams at him as she hesitates to respond –)

The softness of her hand against his cheek, and they are lost.

* * *

His feet take him to the main battery without much thought. Might as well make the rounds.

Garrus, whom he usually has to drag away from his calibrations just to have a decent conversation, hits him with a stare he does not recognize as Shepard joins him at his workstation. He doesn't think much of it at first, not unused to the lack of range in turian expressions.

"Hey," he greets, a bit quieter than usual, gauging. "Got a second?"

The response he gets from Garrus isn't much of a response at all. He tilts his head, unnerving gaze searching, testing, fixed on his commander.

"You were with Liara," he states simply, a touch of coldness coloring his words.

Shepard cocks an eyebrow.

"Eyesight as sharp as ever, Vakarian."

Garrus, whose alien senses picked up on the sweat and the flush and the scent on Shepard before he was fully through the door, isn't fooled. Mandibles flare instinctively.

"You know what I mean."

Shepard has no denial for that. His silence says more than any words.

Turian fist meets human jaw, fast and without hesitation, balled talons smacking against bone as Shepard is slammed sideways. He loses his balance, taken completely by surprise, hunched over the console as his mind catches up with his body.

Shocked. Angry. Face already throbbing. He wipes the blood off his lip, breaths heavy. Glaring. He forces himself not to retaliate. Tone like ice.

"I have work to do."

Garrus just watches him leave.

* * *

Two hours and half a bottle of whiskey later, Shepard finds Garrus again.

Drunk, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, he drops the liquor onto the weapon bench. The cut on his lower lip still stings, swollen and red. Streaks of dried blood still mar his chin, not having bothered to wipe them away. Shame and regret lay heavy on his shoulders.

(_Wrong_ that voice had said, when it should have screamed _selfish selfish selfish -)_

He finds the watchful gaze of the friend that has always stood by his side. The strain in his voice is unmistakable.

"I went there to apologize. Not for that."

"You know damn well how she feels about you."

Any anger had long since dissipated, replaced by the dull taste of truth and bitterness.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

Sanctuary is the final step. Last rites. Miranda has her sister, her freedom. Shepard has the chance to find Kai Leng and the Illusive Man and take back every single _fucking_ thing that was stolen from him. Her war is over. His will end soon, one way or another.

She says goodbye like it's the last time she ever will, and as angry and restless and ready as he is to put an end to Cerberus, he is terrified that she's right. He watches her leave with the last of her family, hoping – with everything that he has left – that she isn't.

(Liara says nothing, never will, but she refuses to meet his eyes the entire time.)

* * *

London is torn apart. Blazing, wrenched open. A dying war zone. He gets one last stop before the final push. Before he finishes what Saren started all those years ago. One last chance to speak to the people that followed him into every shitstorm their galaxy had to offer, and never looked back.

His final promise to Miranda is that he will find her, when this ends. Win or lose. There is no after for him, not without her. He will find her.

Liara makes no promise, or say much of anything at all. Instead she gifts him with the last moments of peace he is likely to ever have.

* * *

The Crucible fires. The gamble pays off. The Reapers are destroyed.

(And the geth, and EDI, and the relays, and half the Citadel, and the list goes on and on and on –)

It takes the stranded Normandy an entire two months to scrounge parts for repair and limp back to what is left of civilization. Two months with limited news, limited contact, limited supplies. Their homecoming is a welcome one, but it doesn't feel much like a homecoming at all.

No Shepard.

For every rumor that he was killed, Liara hears two more that he is alive. Admiral Hackett stonewalls her, out of precaution or ignorance or suspicion she has no idea, but not even Alenko can get any more information out of Alliance brass than _unknown_ or _classified_, and it puts the entire crew on edge.

Her own network is a wreck. Hackett telling her to politely fuck off is one thing, but having over half of her assets ripped out from underneath her is far worse. It is a vulnerability that is not only wildly impractical, but dangerous.

If Hackett no longer considered the Shadow Broker an ally, then she would have to leave the Normandy. Official channels were getting them nowhere, and there is a sickness in her heart that refuses to let her mourn their missing leader – again. She has to work underground, unwatched, alone. She must leave.

(The sickness follows, haunting, aching, never fully healing.)

* * *

Illium – once her personal battlefield – becomes her refuge.

Her apartment is mostly salvageable, though admittedly in sore need of security upgrades, and within a week of arriving in Nos Astra for her unofficial leave of absence, she and her network are operational.

Even in victory there is never a shortage of work, exhausting days yielding to sleepless nights yielding to absolutely nothing at all – Shepard is nowhere to be found. Even the rumors become less and less frequent, and part of her starts to fear that _missing in action_ is all she will ever know.

The lack of contact from Miranda is even more unsettling. If she was alive (and Liara finds it almost impossible to picture anything managing to kill Miranda), then she would be doing everything she could to find Shepard, and if she was smart (again – this is _Miranda_), Liara should have been the first person she contacted.

But no word. No message. No mysterious Cerberus deaths to track. No whisper of her whereabouts.

Until an active alert catches her attention, almost unnoticed, flashing as she stares, disbelieving.

Shepard's Spectre codes.

* * *

Liara keeps pace with the two guards flanking her on either side, expression decidedly stoic as she forces herself to hide the apprehension she feels at being led to the bowels of what was still an unknown ship.

If either of them – one human, one batarian, both heavily armored – noticed that their guest had reservations about the welcome she was receiving, they said nothing. They come to a halt at an intersection, gesturing with a gruff nod of the head that she could continue on alone.

She doesn't bother to thank them, instead striding forward to follow the dim causeway lights that led to her destination. She can feel their gazes following her, vigilant. On edge.

(Good. That might work to her advantage.)

Two more guards at the door, and they step aside without a word, allowing her entrance to where the captain – a turian – was apparently waiting for her. He remains seated behind the desk in the center of the room, eyeing her impassively as she makes her way inside.

"Dr. T'Soni," he greets tonelessly, harmonics low. "My apologies for the delay. I appreciate your patience."

The _delay_, as he so tactfully put it, was nothing more than a poorly contrived negotiation tactic, a transparent attempt to establish some type of power dynamic. Taking away her SMG and making her wait needlessly was irritating, but not intimidating. Overall, it was a weak effort.

"Of course," she replies, politely indifferent, tone perfectly balanced. "You seem to know my name, though you have yet to give me yours."

"Captain Telian. I lead this crew. Tell me. What does an asari war hero want with us?"

She cannot help the grimace that flashes at his words, even if they are slightly mocking.

"The war is over. I have returned to my work as an information broker on Illium. I had hoped we could conduct business."

"I see," responds the turian, purposefully leading, rising from his chair. "So what information do I have that warrants a personal visit?"

She holds his gaze, considering, ignoring the subtle shift of the door guards behind her.

"Someone in this facility – someone on your ship – used Commander Shepard's Spectre codes. I want to know how that person accessed them, and I want to know what they were used for."

The turian lowers his head, hands clasped at his back. He rounds the front of his desk, slowly, forcing her to turn her body and face him. She gets the strange feeling that his dramatics are carefully scripted. Like he is performing. Hiding. His lack of surprise at her request does little to help.

"And in exchange?" he prompts, the desk to his left now empty.

"Name your price. I can have credits wired here within minutes."

His expression does not change, expectant. Unimpressed.

"It seems this is worth quite a lot to you."

"It could be worth much more for you, Captain," she counters, feeling that tiny rush of thrill that came with the subtlety of mind games.

"Yes," he returns, a hint of that same mockery still lurking. "Yes it certainly does seem that way."

"Do we have an agreement?"

His mandibles twitch, head tilting just slightly as he ponders his answer.

"Three million."

(Bold, but irrelevant. She could not afford to lose this lead.)

"Done."

She moves to bring up her omni-tool to complete the transaction, but she is too slow to prevent a taloned hand – one of the guards she had been ignoring – from latching onto her elbow, stopping her action with unexpected force. One twisting motion backwards is all it takes for the bones to snap, dropping her to the ground, pain exploding through her entire arm. Blinding.

The sound that rips from her throat is not one she recognizes.

She hears him laugh, even with half her face pressed into the floor in agony. Her breathing is ragged, uneven, legs curled in on themselves as she writhes. Without warning she is yanked upwards, dragged by her shoulder guards, back slammed into the surface of the desk. She stifles another scream at the pressure on her mangled arm.

"What…are you doing," she pants, his face hovering over awkwardly bent form, visibly amused. "We had a deal."

"You said name your price. So I have."

"What?" she wheezes, still pinned by the guards holding her shoulders. Brushes of black threaten the edges of her vision.

"You make a generous offer, Dr. T'Soni. And I thank you for it. But you are sadly deluded if you thought I would let the Shadow Broker walk away from my ship."

"No," she grinds out, glaring furiously as she tries to summon her biotics, but he is too fast. He smashes the top of his head against hers, bits of dark purple spattering his face. Her resistance completely stills, limp body sliding downwards, then –

Nothing.

* * *

"Hey," shouts one of the guards to his bored counterpart, leaning heavily against the wall as he tried not to fall asleep. "Call the Captain, I think she's coming around."

Their captive is seated on the floor in the center of the room, hands bound behind the support beam that extended to the ceiling. Her legs sprawl in front of her, back pressed against the beam, head hanging forward, resting on her chest. The current slight shifting of her shoulders is the only movement her assigned watch – both human – has observed since they brought her here minutes just a few minutes prior.

"Did you dose her?"

The first guard snorts dismissively at his companion.

"She's not getting out of those cuffs without help."

"Sure," the second guard derides, scowling at the perceived idiocy. "Want to watch her split this room in half?"

"You do it then."

Peeling himself off the wall, the second guard makes a show of grabbing one of the filled syringes from the small table by the door, slowly crossing the room as he approaches their – _guest_ – and crouches beside her.

"My fucking pleasure," he mutters, pushing the asari's lolling head aside to expose the skin at the base of her neck. She stirs at the prick of the needle, tired eyes half-open as she begins to find her way back to full awareness. A sharp intake of breath escapes her as she discovers – with a flash of excruciating pain reverberating through her elbow joint – the restraints on her hands.

The guard, his job finished, resumes his post against the wall as their captain steps inside, dual-locking doors snapping mechanically in his wake. Wet warm liquid sticks against her lip as she lifts her head, jaw set tightly, wary of his approach.

"Ah," he intones, slow, condescending. He frowns at her nosebleed. "I see you tried to use biotics."

Another spike of pain lances through her elbow as she instinctively tries to move her hand to wipe at her nose.

"What did you give me?" she hisses, normally smooth tones cracking. The itch of the injection site on her neck burns beneath her skin. The cut beneath her eye stings with sweat. She guesses her cheekbone may even be broken, her vision obstructed by swelling.

"Omega-Enkaphalin. Concentrated dose. It's a biotic suppressant, as you have obviously figured out."

Coward.

She almost tells him so, but if there was still a way out of this increasingly painful predicament, petty insults would not be particularly useful. She takes a steadying breath.

"There are maybe…fifteen people aware of my identity. Most of them are Normandy. Tell me how you knew."

His expression gives little away.

"I am truly surprised that you have to ask. But – knowledge is power, you know that. I think I'll keep it."

"We can still come to an arrangement. I have access to resources that could double your profits. Work for me, directly, and never want for anything again. You think you have power now? I sell information to you, you use it as you choose. I may even reduce my usual fee."

Her appeal to his sense of economics sounds hollow, even to her own ears, because the only discount she would consider offering is a knife across his throat, but greed could be a powerful motivator. It is worth trying, if only to learn what it was he wanted.

"Or," he starts, lowering himself to her level, the conceit of his body language matching that of his voice, "I extract those resources from you, for free, and I never work for anyone again."

The fury she reflects burns.

"I can assure you it will not be free."

The palms of his taloned hands press into her thighs, eyes alight with his twisted mirth. He nods, as if to agree with her. Taunting.

"Then, I think this could be fun, Shadow Broker."

She holds his gaze, imagining the crack of his spine as she wiped that expression right off his avian fucking face, but says nothing. Deferring his pride to her silence was a safer option than allowing her voice to betray the fear that chilled her.

"Free her hands. Get her on her feet," he orders, nodding at one of his guards keeping vigil behind him. Liara tenses as they approach, that same fear pounding against her heart, deafening. Hands reach under her shoulders and haul her upright, callous, ignoring her stifled grunt as they release the cuffs.

Her completely broken and useless arm hangs awkwardly, clutched to her stomach.

"I'm going to need your armor."

(A hundred panicked thoughts scratch the surface, most of them curses, but no real answer.)

He releases an irritated sigh, impatient, gaze never wavering.

"T'Soni this can be easy, or it can be very very difficult," he warns, arms folded across his chest as he let his threat fall between them.

She recovers her voice in time to offer her own.

"I had an assistant - Nyxeris - that tried to betray me once. Want to guess where she is now?"

He eyes her stoically, curious, but unfazed.

"Still want to know how I got Shepard's Spectre codes?"

It is a cold reminder that his stupid attempt at establishing a power dynamic was not an attempt at all.

"I thought so," he reminds, his words level. Calm. "Your armor."

He could not be bargained with, and the intimidation factor inherent to her title was fading fast. He had her detained, wounded, stripped of her weapons and omni-tool - stripped of her biotics. She had trusted no one with her intended destination, choosing secrecy over security. Reckless hope over patience. She was - is - alone, at the mercy of a mercenary captain that seemed to have none. Her arsenal of options is stretched dangerously thin.

She reaches to her chest with tentative fingers, mobility limited by the use of only one hand. Slowly, deliberately, she struggles with the rest - one shoulder, then the next. Her greaves. Every flex and motion with her right arm is agony, but he watches unmoved, indifferent. One of the guards, less disciplined than his captain, grows tired of waiting and strips what is left.

She falls, unable to endure. Again they pull her shoulders, twisting, binding her to the base of the column. Her vision blurs.

The blood stays on her face.

* * *

They are not amateurs.

White light. Unending noise. Freezing air. Stims. Cuffs.

She cannot remember the day. Or even the hour. Her eyes are lined with red, bloodshot. Dry. Sweat beads on her forehead. Her skin burns. She can't feel her right arm at all. Her thoughts are lost. Words will not come. Tears prick without warning. There is no rest. No reprieve.

Sleep deprivation bears little fruit.

But it is cruel.

(She had been stupid enough – once – to think they might give her a quick death.)

* * *

Their patience wanes as the weeks pass. Her reluctance to be forthcoming with her network of secrecy angers them – the Captain especially, who takes her silence as a personal insult.

(It is, in a way. From betrayed to betrayer. It is the only fuck you she can manage.)

They had ransacked her ship shortly after detaining her, but whatever data was stored in her shuttle would have gained them very little. Glyph had self-destructed, thank –

(No. She doesn't thank the Goddess anymore.)

In her delirium of being denied any rest or sleep, she had given Telian what little she recalled about the red sand trade in the Terminus.

(The hot shower she had earned as a _reward_ was not quite enough to burn away her shame.)

Her brief acquiescence, coerced as it was, did not placate his greed. Did not sate his curiosity. Did not temper his aggression. He wanted more. Military secrets, blackmail targets, trading routes, financial holdings – all of it. He was an opportunist, and a cold one.

He would claim his victory through force, or he would not claim it at all.

(This was never her war to win.)

* * *

Unyielding boot meets her jaw, her head snapping sideways at the impact. A thin ragged line now slices through her lip.

She is barely recovered before Telian waves a hand at one of his men.

"Again."

Another foot connects, harder this time, and the force of it leaves her slumped on the floor. Dazed. Blood melts on her tongue.

She is helpless as he kneels beside her, heaving her shoulders upward, back against the column once more. His hands - taloned, gloved - are gentle. Sick. Reptilian eyes hover near hers, expressionless. Arrogant.

"I will kill you," she promises, words thick in her throat.

The familiar prick of the needle pierces her skin, tingling touch against her spine, but she refuses to acknowledge him as he squeezes her arm, disinterested.

"One day I will rip the lungs from your body."

This time, he does meet her gaze. Humors her. Then he signals.

That fucking boot strikes her again.

Blood gathers in her mouth, spilling onto her teeth.

(Again.)

Face meets floor. It does not move.

(Again.)

She gasps, pain spiking in her abdomen.

(Again.)

The cuffs tear into her skin as she tries to pull away.

(Again.)

Her body stills.

"Stop – you'll kill her," warns a voice above her, clouded, no harmonics. Human.

She can still feel Telian's presence, watching in cold silence. Unfazed. Even curled into the floor, deep purple leaking into her eye, she can sense his displeasure at his subordinate's interruption.

"You seem to have an admirer, T'Soni," he mocks, tone still dangerously flat. "I don't remember him being so compassionate when it was Lawson he was playing with. Perhaps he prefers asari."

Her lungs hitch. Body freezes. Skin crawls.

"Miranda?" she whispers, hating the desperation that lingers.

Telian tilts his head, gauging. Curious at her response.

"You did ask how I got those Spectre codes."

She tries to shake her head, shock and disbelief burning, but she cannot even lift her neck.

"She wouldn't."

"Mm. She didn't, at first. She required…skilled persuasion. But she – like you, Shadow Broker," he nods, applying pressure to his grip on her calf, "thought she was untouchable. Her sister was much easier to find. We made quite a show of it, really. The threat alone was enough to break Lawson. The girl – Oriana? – had no idea."

Disgust was slowly starting to replace the shock.

"You would harm a child?"

He made another low noise in his throat, hostile edge returning to his voice.

"I took what I needed from Lawson, and then I killed her sister anyway."

No. _No_.

"_Why?_"

She cannot help the tears that sting.

"She came looking for medical supplies, surrounded by a guard of Alliance soldiers. Highly unusual. I was…curious. So I killed her crew and took her down. She refused to cooperate, gave me nothing. She only relented when I finally tracked down her sister. Then she gave me everything, including you. Perhaps she thought it would never matter, that you'd stay away? Trivial, now. In the end I killed her sister because I could. And you showed up anyway."

The room spins around her. Words will not come, her jaw clenched tightly. Pain lances with even the slightest movement. The burden of this new revelation weighs heavy on her chest. She is pinned.

He laughs at her paralysis, amusement still tainted by that same unflinching coldness.

"You should have stayed on Illium."

* * *

In the absolute stillness of dark, the images burn against her skull as the paralysis of her half-broken body consumes.

( - _three men drag her onto the balcony, screams muffled by the gag that chokes her, he laughs as he lines up the girl in his scope, making her watch in agony as he pulls the trigger - _)

It is a replay she never asked for, haunting, playing over and over and over until her stomach twists and her wrists bleed and it makes no difference whether her eyes are open or not.

They _murdered_ Oriana - an innocent - to destroy Miranda. Nothing more, nothing less. Miranda, who had betrayed Liara, betrayed Shepard. Miranda, who had been lied to, manipulated, coerced into giving up everything to save her sister - and even that had been ripped away. Had they murdered Miranda too? Bled her dry and discarded her?

There are no answers. Only silence. Darkness. Failure.

(It is torture enough.)

* * *

"Hey," a voice lilts from somewhere above her, boot nudging her calf. She spares him - one of the human guards - a tired glance, apathy banished only briefly. He drops to a knee, frowning at her lack of response. She has little to offer him except exhaustion and indifference.

He seems not to care.

"Hey - T'Soni. Listen to me right now," he tries again, more urgent this time. Panicky, almost.

(She is curious, now, though she doubts the parts of her face left undamaged would be able to show it.)

He reaches underneath her shoulders, pulling her upright, ignoring her groans of protest as the familiar pull of her ruined arm against her restraints flares with renewed fervor. Now, with his sweaty, focused face close to hers, she recognizes him as the one that stopped Telian from beating her to death.

"I'm sorry. I don't have much time. Soon - I don't know when - they're going to move you. I don't know where, Captain didn't say. I'm going to - hey, look at me!" he orders more forcefully, noting the glassiness of her eyes as her attention begins to slide away.

He looks frightened. Actually frightened. As if he were on the edge of a breakdown.

"Take this. Use it. I don't know how far you'll get. But I can't – won't watch..."

A knife, retractable blade, no bigger than her thumb. He presses it into her palm, fingers clenched in protection.

"Why?" she manages, words rough against her throat. Mouth and tongue dry from dehydration and underuse.

He shakes his head, jawline set.

"This is wrong. Telian can get fucked."

* * *

The barrel of a rifle presses into her back, the nudge of cool metal keeping her feet moving as the guards press onward.

Dark hallway. Stairs. Left turn. More stairs. Muffled words. Forceful shove, and she stumbles. Laughter. Her palm is slick with sweat, fingers clinging to her concealed weapon – her last chance at salvation – so tightly her hand shakes. Her plan is absurd. But simple. Over and over again it burns in her mind, singular focus fueling.

(Kill her guards. Steal a ship. Find Shepard.)

Her escort stops moving, planted firmly in front of a thick steel door. Its design is a familiar one – it is the same kind that marks her own cell.

Captain Telian awaits their party, imposing his presence in stiff silence. He eyes his prize captive with the same detached superiority as always.

"Enjoy, Shadow Broker."

Another shove and she is across the threshold, door sliding closed behind her. The locking gears click mechanically as she turns to face the emptiness of the room.

No. Not empty.

A person – human, female – is slumped against the back wall, completely still, body making no movement or sign of awareness that she was no longer alone. Her face is too far away for Liara to see clearly, dimmed by the dust and the dull light. Wearily, overtired limbs aching, she takes a tentative step forward.

Her chest stalls without warning, recognition twisting painfully.

_Miranda_.

Emaciated, joints jutting out sharply, what was once toned muscle and slim curves is now sharp angles and jaundiced skin. Her scalp is shaved, rough, tiny nicks of dark red hiding beneath shorn fuzz. Raised puncture marks dot the base of her neck and the length of her arms, inflamed and discolored. The thumb, index, and middle fingers of her left hand are gone – _gone_ – nothing but oozing crimson stumps down to the knuckle.

Miranda was still alive, still their prisoner. They had not killed her. Simply kept her as their plaything.

The shock dissipates, replaced by something fiercer. Leaden. It tightens in her stomach, quiet.

Ice blue eyes – unmoved, void – finally land on Liara. (_Not you, _they almost say_. Not you_). Her expression does not change as she shifts her head just slightly, watching as the asari lowers herself to a crouch just inches away. Liara reaches for what fingers remain, blue warmth against pale cold.

Miranda moves her mouth to speak, words cracking at the roughness in her throat.

"I never had a choice."

Her response is calm. Hard. Like stone.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Silence falls, its grip heavy, weighing between them as sadness unfading.

Liara's plan, her last - only - chance, is now irrevocably hopeless.

She could never make it far enough without biotics, never be able to fight through a small army of mercenaries with nothing more than a shank. Never be able to steal a ship without being shot down. And even if she could, even if she somehow freed herself from the torment that had become her prison these past months, it would have to be alone. She could not lift – let alone carry – Miranda, not when she herself was injured and weak. But leave her? Leave her to suffer in isolation? Leave her to be tortured and degraded for _fun_?

That, Liara could not do.

The guard that had given her a weapon in his last minute crisis of conscience was too late.

Her decision is made.

The knife flips open at her touch, glint of silver dulled by darkness. One thrust, deep into the side of the heart, and it is over. Blood seeps onto her fingers and wrist, grasp on the blade slipping. It had spared, but it could not save.

Miranda is dead.

Still she clutches the lifeless hand beneath hers. The hardness in her stomach consumes.

The door opens. She hears them curse. Harried footsteps. Surprise. Anger. Shouting, then pressure on her back, face against the concrete. Pinned. Dragged back outside, back to her cell to face the unyielding fury of Telian.

Miranda is dead. Her own fate would be less kind.

(Such is the price for her mercy.)

* * *

Thousands and thousands and thousands of miles away, Shepard wakes.

* * *

Aria T'Loak strides with purpose, skillfully concealing her frustration at the deliberately slow pace of her – she hesitates to use the word _colleague_ – with a look of controlled indifference.

Telian might be an overinflated ass, but an increasingly noticeable one. Somehow he had gained control of the red sand trade in three systems in just as many months, and his proximity to Omega had earned her attention. And interest.

And, naturally, her presence tended to inspire cooperation.

The Captain drones about recruitment activity and production lines and usurping competition and it is all so fucking _boring_ until his little tour of his ship leads them past a row of detention cells, a small corridor that led to the lift that would bring them to his cargo deck. Most of them were filled – a human, couple batarians, a salarian maybe.

Still she remains unimpressed, but curiosity stirs.

"I thought turians hated slavers," she leads, smirking as she eyes the length of the hallway.

"Capital is capital. I simply follow the credits."

She ignores his reply, pacing onward past occupied doors, uninterested in the source of his supplementary income until – she stops as her inscrutable gaze lands on the only asari captive in the entire wing.

Her stare burns through the glass that separates them.

"Telian," she intones, measured. "What the hell are you doing with Matriarch Benezia's daughter?"

He joins Aria at the viewport looking in on the cell, expressionless as ever, revealing nothing of his thoughts as he eyes his favorite prize. She is bound to the support post on the floor – as she always is, nowadays – one of her eyes blackened, swollen shut. Gag across her mouth, tied behind her head. Even so, Aria misses nothing. Damaged or not, her face and markings are not so easily forgotten.

Especially not by the Queen of the Terminus.

"Liara T'Soni is a profitable commodity," finally answers Telian, smug, yet still withholding.

"And yet you haven't sold her."

"I was tempted, at first. But in the end the Shadow Broker proved too – amusing – to give away."

A flash of emotion (_shock – elation – suspicion – greed) _courses through her, but Aria does not avert her gaze.

"Shadow Broker?" she returns, waiting. Biding.

"Oh yes. I used to wonder why the Broker seemed so benevolent during the war. Not anymore."

How strange and fortunate of a development this was turning out to be. She had been far too busy reclaiming Omega and helping Shepard with his war to be bothered with the Shadow Broker, and here the mystery is solved. It seems T'Soni had settled her score with the Broker.

And paid for it.

Intriguing.

"Open that door," orders Aria, urgency in her voice taking Telian by surprise. If he had a problem with being issued demands on his own ship (of course he did – that was half the fun), he chooses not to comment. He nods meaningfully at one of his men, who springs forward to disable the lock on the door.

Her escort – commandos, no doubt – stiffen with unease as Aria strides into the cell without so much as a backward glance. Telian follows her inside, maintaining his reluctant silence, waiting to see what it is Aria wants.

From her position on the floor, Liara eyes them apathetically, listless.

Aria slowly circles around the support post, taking note of the restraints and the wrists bound between them. Satisfied that T'Soni could not attack her, she drops to a crouch beside the younger asari.

Her inspection is quick, calculative. Face – orbital fracture. Explains the eye. Some scarring, too; forehead, lip, bridge of her nose. The right arm is awkwardly bent, as if it had healed – or is perhaps still healing – incorrectly. The left is heavily bruised, but intermittently, like patchwork. Aria pulls at the back of her arm, locked tightly by the restraints, revealing the exposed skin to the light.

Track marks.

(Liara turns her head away, breaths heavy, energy drained even from such a small action.)

"You keep her sedated?" asks Aria, guessing at the source of repeated injections.

"No need," corrects Telian, waving a taloned hand dismissively. "She is powerless without biotics. Suppressants are enough."

"Am I to assume your corner of the drug market includes more than red sand?"

"You should know. Your people sold it to me. Rumor was that you ordered all O-E off your station."

At this, Aria rises to her feet, professional curiosity now tainted with a hint of rage.

"It was a Cerberus creation. I wanted it gone like the rest of their filth. Where it ended up is not my concern."

"Of course. Though I cannot deny its usefulness."

"Yes," she agrees, features cooled, but not friendly. "So I see."

A moment passes, tense, stilled, then –

"Your highest offer – what was it?"

"Not high enough," he remarks, equally cold.

"Give me a number."

"Twenty million. Batarians."

"Double it."

"Triple it," he counters, unwavering.

"Don't push it," hisses Aria derisively, arms folded across her chest, deliberately standoffish. "So far I've had no reason to…_interfere_…with your little enterprise here."

Telian flares his mandible, considering. He would not love parting with his prize, enjoyable as she was, but he would have to be dead or beyond stupid to refuse the profit opportunity now laid at his feet.

"Then she's yours. I hope she will not go to waste."

"Good. Have her brought to my ship. One of my people will be in touch about payment."

"Of course. And I look forward to doing business in the future."

"Yes," she answers, indifferent. Distant. "I'm sure you do."

* * *

They tell him he won.

They tell him the wave of destructive energy - that desperate fire of salvation - crippled the mass relays and all things synthetic. They tell him Reapers fell from the sky. Defunct, useless. Dead. They tell him the loss of life across all species was catastrophic, but the galaxy lives still. They tell him the Citadel was left in ruins, abandoned, forcing the Council to rebuild anew. They tell him his body was nothing more than a mangled, burned wreck of broken bone and wasted flesh. His cybernetics - gone.

And yet – the war was won. He is alive.

He set out to stop the Reapers. And so he did.

So he fucking did.

(And here he is, reborn. Again.)

* * *

"So," opens Aria, business-like tone not quite enough to mask the smirk. "_Shadow Broker_, is it?"

Liara sits in stillness across the table, reluctant centerpiece in a room clearly designed for negotiations.

She had been given medi-gel to keep her upright, and combat fatigues to cover herself, but that was the extent of the hospitality. Cuffs dig into her wrists. Two guards flank her, ready to act the instant they are commanded to. She may have been released from her prison, but she is not deluded into thinking she is actually free.

She eyes her liberator (buyer – whatever) with detached indifference. Exhaustion prevents little else.

"Yes."

Aria cannot pass up the chance to gloat.

"So you finally outgrew your precious asari maiden act. I'm impressed. I thought the war would kill you."

Liara says nothing. Has nothing to say.

"Not feeling talkative? Fine. That will make this much easier. Here's how this works, T'Soni – I did you a favor, but there are certain…strings."

"You want my assets."

It is not a guess.

"Assuming you still have any left – yes."

"You can have the network. Take it. I don't want it."

"Why?" questions Aria sharply, never one to trust unexpected generosity.

"You say you did me a favor. I am repaying in kind."

"And retreat to a life in hiding as the Shadow Broker? I don't think so. I freed _you_."

"You bought me," corrects Liara, unfazed. Same emptiness coloring her words, few as she can manage.

"Yes – and where would you be if I hadn't? I'm offering you a chance to work for me. Unless you'd rather I gave you back to Telian. Or let the Council crucify you."

Internally – with what little of herself remains untouched by pain and defeat – she reasons that she would probably never make it that far. The asari Republics, with their position shaken and planet in ruins, would not hesitate to grasp for the illusion of control. Daughter of a traitor, politically outspoken, exposed as the Shadow Broker – exposed as a criminal? She, and most likely her father too, would be _missing_ long before there were whispers of a trial. What was one more dead pureblood?

And she would rather throw herself from the airlock than let Telian _ever_ touch her again.

What choice does she have?

(_I never had a choice_, a tiny voice whispers, taunting –)

"I accept your offer. I will work for you until the debt is paid."

"Good. I may have thrown away money _buying_ you, but you are not my slave. Credits, hardware, protection – it's yours. You'll be wanting surgery on that arm? I'll pay for it myself. In _return_," she stresses, and Liara finds herself unsurprised by her tone, "I expect you to keep quiet. I cannot afford to have Shepard or Vakarian or that absolute twat Alenko come running to save you."

Something that had been frozen in her gut, suspended, deadweight, drops. Suddenly the emptiness is replaced with something rougher, warmer. Desperate.

"Shepard's alive?"

If Aria expected such a reaction, she does not show it. Her smirk is as unrevealing as ever.

"Well that must be a change, being in the dark. Exactly how long were you on that ship?"

Her heart threatens to explode, beating out of her chest as she realizes she doesn't know she doesn't know she _doesn't know_ –

"Relax, T'Soni. The Alliance still has him on lockdown. But yes, he is alive."

She wills herself to keep her breathing even.

_(He survived. He's not dead. He's alive alive alive he is actually alive_–)

"You have sources in the Alliance?"

"You don't?" counters Aria, who is enjoying herself just a little too much, even by her own standards.

She did. Once. Before Mars. Before London. Before Telian.

"You have my silence. But there are certain…strings," she parrots, words sounding foreign. Cold. Like someone else was speaking them. Like the Shadow Broker still lived.

"Oh?"

"I made Captain Telian a promise. I intend to keep it."

Aria is no fool. Nor even remotely innocent. She does not need to read between the lines.

"You're out for blood."

Liara's jaw hardens, ire she had thought depleted stirring once more.

"More than that."

"How poetic. Are you asking for my blessing?"

"No. I'm asking for your help. You, personally. Few match you in pure biotic power."

"You could take an _army_ –"

"No one else has to know what…to know about me. You already do. And Telian sees you as a business partner. He would have no reason to refuse your visit, and you'd inherit his resources."

"And you – why trust me? Here I thought you shed your naiveté."

"Shepard trusts you."

Aria snorts.

"I never asked him to."

"All the same. Help me, and everything I have is yours."

She considers, eyes narrowed with that same flash of elation and greed, now tainted with ambition. War. The promise of blood. Power.

(For Liara, it is rage. Or it is nothing.)

"Done."

* * *

Five months in what is essentially Alliance quarantine, and Shepard is ready to strangle the next person that tells him he needs to _pace himself_.

Five months of being hooked to machines, five months of surgery and procedures, five months recovering on a medical frigate (though today he is angry enough to call it a prison). Five months of nurses up his ass every minute of every day, five months of physical therapists being just a little too understanding. Five months of living in isolation because they cannot risk news of his survival reaching the wrong ears. Five months of zero contact with any of his crew – his friends.

(Except Chakwas, reliable as ever. She, at least, keeps him relatively sane.)

Five – goddamn – months.

And no Miranda. It chills him. Worries him. Sets him on edge. Holds him back.

She contacted Hackett, once, to report her survival, ( – _he blinks tears from his eyes when he learns she survived, throat tight from relief unbidden _– ) and her intent to leave Earth in search of medical supplies. Supplies that would heal him, rebuild him. Supplies that might save him. Hackett loaned her a squad of marines and a spare ship, and sent her on her way.

Except – she never returned.

Communication went dark. Her crew stopped reporting in. Less than ideal, they concede, but not unsurprising. Damaged relays and covert operations implied a level of risk prone to complications. Her silence may be unusual, but not cause for panic. Not yet.

(Months. Her last message to Hackett was _months_ ago.)

Chakwas, who can sense his brooding all too easily, warns him against recklessness. Warns him not to charge off into the Terminus chasing shadows.

(Fuck that and fuck his rehab. This isn't what he died for. This isn't what he would live for.)

He does it anyway.

* * *

Liara never gets to end Telian's life.

Aria does.

(It is neither quick nor painless. Aria never cared for finesse.)

Instead she sits in dull agony, fire that had sustained her now completely spent. She is propped against the desk – the only piece of furniture left intact. Telian's body, still warm and smeared with dark blue leaking from the cavity in his chest, lies just feet away from her own.

She tries to move, tries to join Aria on the throne of their victory, but her muscles make no response. Blood – purple, only a shade darker than the man she had watched Aria utterly destroy – seeps from the bullet wound in her shoulder. It is hard to see, hard to feel anything past her arms. Fever clings to her skin, clammy and hot – chemical rounds?

Still, she knows this desk. Knows this room. Knows that scent.

_(claws at her neck, voice in her ear – you don't fight anymore – why don't you fight anymore? is this how your mother took it from Saren?)_

She can feel Aria standing over her, hands slick from the kill that should not have been hers. Still Liara bleeds.

"Just let me die," she breathes, sick, fading. Delirious.

Aria hears the words, hears the fear and despair, but adrenalin will not let her relent. She kneels, close, chilled gaze piercing as it always does.

"Save it, T'Soni. Grow a quad, and stand up. I'm not leaving you in this shithole."

She tries. She really does. But her willpower is draining. Pain clouds even the tiniest movement.

Aria sighs, frustrated, eye roll automatic. She shifts her position, reaching underneath the younger asari's shoulder, ignoring her grunt of protest. Then – she is off the ground, disoriented, the burden of her weight no longer her own. Aria is annoyed, and her pace slow. But she is moving.

"Don't know why I bother with you noble idiots," she grumbles, sweat beginning to bead with the struggle of hauling her cargo, wounded and useless. "You and Shepard are like a couple of rabid varren forever chasing your own tails."

Aria turns a corner, right into three mercs; leftovers from their initial assault. Her flare is automatic – not to mention lethal – and they are dead before they can even fire their weapons. Yet – not even Aria is good enough to unleash biotic hell while carrying another, and Liara hits the ground, hard.

Her gaze meets the ceiling, dull light casting shadows. Distant noise – gunfire, humming engines, shouting – blurs. Skin burns, legs numb. Hands near her chest, pressure, and she tries to jerk away –

"Damn it, stop moving. I'm trying to close this."

Aria. Right.

"Can't believe you managed to get shot," she hisses, hastily slapping medi-gel on the wound, none too gently. She ignores Liara's feeble attempts to push her hands away. "Ever heard of a barrier?"

Liara, still sprawled on the ground, does her best to shake her head. Mouth set in a grim line.

"My biotics are gone."

Her admission – honest, quiet – earns her a look from Aria (not pity, not from her) that drains the very last ounce of resolve she possessed –

"I'm dead without them. Go," she urges, trying once more to shove the elder asari away.

Aria does not move.

"Bray," she orders into her omni-tool, other hand gripping her shotgun. "I need extraction. Get everyone else back to the rendezvous."

She pauses, jaw clenched tightly. It is silent except for Liara's shallow, weakened breathing.

"And bring a fucking medic."

* * *

Liara is not on Illium.

Everything he needed, he took. Hackett was not impressed with his hospital jailbreak, but offered little resistance. Shepard used his Spectre authority to reclaim the dry-docked Normandy, and though he was careful about announcing his presence, those of his old teammates still lingering in the Sol system were all too eager to join their commander again.

Alenko, Vega, Traynor, Cortez, Chakwas – all cleared by the Alliance for temporary reassignment aboard the Normandy. Garrus looks no worse for wear, though perhaps a little more glum without Tali, who could not afford to leave Rannoch. Jack punches him, again, this time for "making" her leave her kids just so they can rescue Miss Perfect. Joker looks like shit, but he can still fly.

(Shepard catches him talking to himself on the bridge, more than once.)

Still, no one had heard from Liara since she left Earth. She returned to Nos Astra, citing the need to relocate and continue her work without interference, then ceased all communication.

It took them weeks to get here with the damaged relays, and now? She is nowhere to be found. Her old office is deserted, untouched since she abandoned it. Her old apartment at least looks lived-in (and he set off about ten alarms breaking into it), but empty. No codes or cryptic messages for him this time. And nobody in the markets has seen her for months, if at all.

Shepard had been counting on her presence. Counting on her resources, her information network. Counting on her help. Trying to find Miranda without it would be next to impossible. He'd be flying blind. He _needed_ Liara.

But she isn't here.

It unsettles him.

* * *

Time on Omega seems suspended. Unremarkable. Her routine is always the same.

She passes the long hours of sunless days working, sliding back into her old skin. Slowly, she uses her considerable skill and expanding resources to rebuild Aria's empire. She keeps tabs where she can – Rannoch, Tuchanka, Palaven – but she does not break her agreement. Does not break her silence.

In the beginning she frequented Afterlife, looking for liquor (she overdrinks) or company (the dancers are _very_ good) or just something that looked and felt like it was actually alive (she learns the hard way that red sand will not bring her biotics back), but one too many times of being recognized or felt up or harassed, and she gave that up too.

(She is no stranger to isolation.)

At night, she trains. And retraining her combat instincts proves to be a grueling task.

Surgery had replaced her elbow joint, but the damage to her nerves was done. Her right arm is now more cybernetic than organic, and while the metal hardware of her new brace keeps her bones aligned, it also severely limits her range of motion. Her left hand, her non-dominant hand, is all she has left to rely on.

Aria gifts her with new armor – hardweave fibers, thicker plating. Reinforced barriers. Black. She looks the part of a commando, but her ability is lacking. The real commandos she spars with continually wipe the floor with her. Too slow. Too predictable. Too passive.

Sometimes the workout is tiring enough that she can sleep without torment.

Sometimes it really isn't.

* * *

The XO's office is empty. Quiet. Dark.

He lays flat on his back, cool fabric of untouched sheets soft against his limbs. In the dead of night, rest of his crew long since retired, he is alone with his thoughts.

His trip to Illium had proved fruitless, but he could not spare the time to scour the rest of the galaxy for Liara. He may not like it (in fact – he is certain he almost hates it), but if she was doing business off the grid, she had good reasons. He could not afford any unnecessary risk, not when Miranda was still missing.

His next stop would have to be Omega. Relatively close, good for provisions and refueling, and – aside from the Shadow Broker herself – the best place to gather intel in the Terminus. Aria, at least, would be able to give him _something_. Perhaps he'd even be lucky enough to find Miranda herself – she hated Omega, but it was a damn good place to hide if things went to shit.

He tries not to think about that.

(Too late.)

In the stillness of solitude, doubts linger. Was Chakwas right? Had he flown blindly? Carelessly? Was he leading his crew – his unconditionally loyal friends – into the unknown out of nothing more than selfishness? What if Miranda was fine, and he was endangering her mission? What if he did find her, but her feelings had changed? What if she was dead already?

And – god damn it – where the fuck was Liara?

He rolls to the side, thinking maybe he can sleep off his misgivings, then he remembers this was once her bed too.

He thought the room would give him rest. Instead it brings affliction.

So he rises. Leaves. He won't stay.

Too many ghosts.

* * *

"Well well," sneers Aria from her throne, though her indifference toward her latest guest is mostly a formality. "Being back from the dead is starting to look good on you."

"Aria," greets Shepard, fixing her with a smile that would be _just_ enough to irritate her. "I knew you'd be pleased to see me."

She snorts, half-hearted.

"So what is it, Shepard? I take it Omega isn't a stop on your victory tour."

"No," he confirms, cheerful demeanor slightly diminished, "it isn't."

"So why is the Alliance letting the savior of the galaxy off its leash?"

He is unfazed at her dig.

"They couldn't stop me."

This time, she actually does laugh.

(They never could intimidate each other.)

"Looking for a new home, then? A life on the run?"

He frowns, joining her on the opposite couch.

"Not exactly. I need information."

"For free? I'm almost insulted."

Shepard shrugs, considering, breaking out his irksome charm.

"I assumed your eternal gratitude to me for liberating this station would include this small favor."

Aria resists the urge to remind him exactly what she thinks of assumptions. Frustrated, her mouth sours into a twisted line.

"What kind of information?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Going to need more than that, Shepard."

"Miranda Lawson."

Aria is surprised – genuinely surprised – but her face does little to reveal it.

"Your girlfriend? You're shitting me."

"Admiral Hackett sent her out here, scouting for supplies. You're the Queen. You must know something."

She is silent for a moment, eyeing him with something he can't quite identify, then she rises to her feet. Decisive.

"I can't help you."

"What?" he demands, feeling the hope that had fueled him choke beneath her words. "Why not?"

"Because I have nothing for you. I do, however, happen to have an information broker under my employ. I will…loan her to you. Bray?" she calls out, expectant.

"On her way up," acknowledges her batarian lieutenant, resuming his position by the stairs.

Shepard watches the newcomer's approach with little interest, hesitant to place his trust in someone that he had never met, never worked with. Even if she – he can tell it's a she, from here – was well paid by Aria, that didn't guarantee unwavering loyalty. Or honesty.

"You sent for me?" prompts the asari, hands clasped behind her back as she steps into the light, hooded eyes lowered to the ground.

That voice. He would know that voice anywhere – he _knows_ that voice. Shock ruptures in his stomach, overwhelming.

For a moment, he is weightless.

"Liara?"

* * *

Shepard has a talent for destruction.

The dispassion she had adopted since her arrival on Omega had worked in her favor, but even that now is gone. The riptide of emotion she once controlled so well now rages against her chest, months and months of survivalist instinct torn open.

And all he had to do was walk back into her life.

"What the hell are you doing on Omega?"

They are in her apartment, sparse as it is, a small studio tucked away from most of the station's population. Computer terminals whir in her office, tiny blinking lights flashing in the darkness. The apparent hostility in his voice tugs at her, weighs on her, but she brushes it off with a thin smile and joins him in the sitting room.

"Nice to see you too, Shepard."

"I'm sorry. I am happy to see you – truly. I went looking for you on Illium…" he trails off, hoping that might open the door for some explanation as to finding her here so unexpectedly.

"Ah," she returns, pouring him wine without bothering to ask. "I have not been there in some time."

Disappointed, Shepard accepts the glass without comment.

"I can see that," he says, measured, eyes wandering around her living space. "But why come here?"

"Aria and I have arranged a…mutually beneficial partnership," she answers, vague, choosing her words carefully.

"She said she was _loaning_ you to me. That mean you work for her?"

"Yes."

"Why?" he insists, leaning forward in earnest. "Why not help the Alliance? Or Thessia? Since when do you exclusively sell your resources to one person? Why Aria?"

"I owe her a debt."

Simple, but not altogether helpful. Shepard sighs, trying to breathe away his frustration.

"I don't understand. What debt?"

"It is a long story. Perhaps we can discuss it later. Now – what is it you need from me?"

It is harder to hide his disappointment, this time. A shadow darkens his face, almost sad. A couple guarded sentences, barely an explanation, a half-hearted smile. All this time passed, and that is all she can give him.

Still, she did offer to help. He just wonders if she meant the dismissal to sting.

"I need to find Miranda. Hackett sent her out here, but he lost contact. Can you help me?"

Liara is quiet, determinedly so, staring at her hands with a strange calm. His level gaze, scrutinizing, does not meet hers.

"Hackett sent her?" she asks, coldness in her tone as unreadable as her thoughts.

"Yeah. Months ago. Did she contact you? Have you heard anything?"

Her expression is blank, no reaction to his words other than to move her hands – which had been clutching her glass just a _touch_ too tightly – to her lap.

(They are shaking.)

"Shepard," she starts, slow, thickness in her throat.

(If Aria had listened, had not been so stupidly, ruthlessly protective, she'd have died – _died_ like she wanted and never, _ever_ have to face the dread and the sickness that claws at her now.)

He waits, eager, so attentive, so hopelessly bound to his need to find the woman he loved – still loves. Liara will not look at him.

"Miranda's dead."

His world breaks, right there at that table, but he makes no sound.

Silence.

Still.

Finally, a stunted breath, choking, soft –

"What?"

Her eyes do not leave the floor. She clasps her hands together, trying to stop the shaking, but it does not cease. Shepard realizes, even through the depth of his shock and his sorrow – that she is _afraid_.

"She tried to barter supplies with a turian mercenary captain, for you. They…fought."

Another silence.

"He killed her. I'm sorry."

(And only one of those is a complete and terrible lie. The taste is vile.)

His head meets his hands, desperate, his doubts and his frustrations so cruelly, faithlessly rewarded. The tightly packed control, the fearless optimism that had led him on this search for even a fraction of hope and the future he craved – unwound.

Suddenly he rises, chair jolting backwards with screeching force.

He physically cannot be in this room anymore, not with the horror that scratches his mind, not with the onslaught of grief that had threatened him since he woke up alive, alone. Not with Liara's quiet, tragic stare.

(_Especially_ not Liara. The distance – miles unspoken – is too much.)

He turns away, lost, any remnant of his resolve now gone. Hollow.

"I should go."

* * *

Her respite from the fallout is short-lived.

It is only hours after he walked out that he storms right back in again, all brooding rage and strangling sorrow and raw physical presence.

And very, very drunk.

"You knew?" he demands, accusation sharp and unforgiving. "You _knew_ she was dead?"

That same stare. Same softness. Same calm.

"Oriana too."

Unable to stand her restraint, her casual indifference as she relays this news, he turns his anger to the table he now refuses to sit at. The glasses and the wine from earlier fall and shatter on the floor with one furious swipe of his arms.

Liara flinches, startled at his show of aggression.

(It isn't enough.)

"So, what? You never bothered to share this? Too busy to send me a message? Is that it?"

Her arms fold across her chest instinctively, defensive.

"I swore to Aria that I would not contact –"

"Bullshit," he hisses, fists clenched. "She doesn't own you. You like the lies, you liked lying, you said it yourself – you're good at it. You and your fucking secrets."

His words burn, acidic. Venom.

"Some of those secrets won you the war," she returns, without hesitation. Bladed. Cold.

He ignores the jibe.

"Would you _ever_ have told me about Miranda?"

She has no answer for that. As he already knew.

(She just does not think she will ever find the words to tell him _why_.)

"Unbelievable," he mutters, piercing. "I always trusted you, so much. How could you hide this from me?"

"I told you," she tries, response automatic, but he is too impatient. Too resentful.

"That you made a deal with Aria? Yeah. I heard you. But you could have said something. If you told me you needed help, I'd have come running."

She laughs, disdainful. Empty.

"Now who's lying?"

For a second, guilt stabs at him, and a piece of his rage falls away. His voice softens just slightly.

"Don't. You know I care about you."

"Yes," she agrees, too quickly. Callous. "You care. I never did thank you for the, what is the term – pity fuck?"

She gets a vain satisfaction from the way his face falls, stunned. Wounded.

"That isn't true. I never meant…it was _never_ like that."

"Miranda's dead," she spits, unwilling to hear any honesty he has to offer. "No one knew if you survived. Hackett told me nothing. I tried to find Miranda, for you. To help find you, or your body. Instead I found hers. Aria helped me kill the man responsible. So now I help her. I have nothing else to offer you."

"God _damn_ it Liara, that isn't fucking good enough!" he shouts, his fury returned, the barrier of the table he had so vigorously tossed aside no longer between them. He is just steps away. Close enough to evoke turmoil.

"Then leave," she returns, matching his anger with little sympathy.

"No," he challenges, unmoved. "Not until you actually help me. You owe me that."

"You wanted information, you have it. I owe you nothing."

"No? You gave me to fucking Cerberus, and then you _dropped_ me to fight your war with the Shadow Broker! And here you are, playing Aria's bitch like it's nothing, like I haven't killed myself _for months_ trying to find someone you already knew was dead. Can you at least pretend like you give a shit?"

He sounds desperate – still incensed, still powerful – but desperate too. Even from here, she can smell the liquor on his breath. Potent. Clouding.

"Of course. I do like lying, after all."

It takes him a moment to realize exactly what she is saying, but it cuts as it hits him. It is this cold dismissal – again – that makes him snap.

In one fluid motion he closes the distance between them, grabbing her by the fabric of her shoulders and slamming her against the wall. Hatred – actual hatred – smolders in his gaze, his grip on her body unrelenting. His self-control, gone.

Liara freezes, pinned without warning. Breath caught in her throat. Instinct pulses, and she tenses, ready to throw him off. But nothing happens. A spike of pain at the back of her head. Blood leaks from her nose.

Then –

He releases her. Takes a step backward. His outburst gone as quickly as it had come.

"Get out."

All of the energy, all of that fury, drains from his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, I lost it, don't –"

"Get out."

* * *

Every death is a sacrifice.

He said that once. More than once. He said it to console, or inspire. Unify. Ignite. To draw strength when he needed it. To forgive. Rest. Rebuild.

Every death is a sacrifice.

(Hers is one too many.)

* * *

"This had better be damn important, Shepard."

Aria.

Unamused. Caustic. Aloof. But still here, at least.

"Something's wrong with Liara."

"Yes," she returns dryly, sparing the absolute wreck of an apartment a critical glance. Table overturned, broken glass and debris littering the floor. "So it would seem."

Shepard, who had shelved the unruly and conflicting ache the second he found Liara nonresponsive and so obviously in some type of distress, now hovers with indecision.

(And guilt. Old friend that it is. He threatened her, put hands on her, and now –)

"Her nose was bleeding, but now she's, I don't know - fucking catatonic."

Aria exudes arrogance, suiting her in that flawless way that it always does.

"No doctor on your precious Normandy?"

He is silent.

"You didn't tell anyone about your little reunion," she guesses, effortless.

"Can you do something?" he asks, cold, defensive.

Aria ignores him, instead scrutinizing the woman lying sprawled sideways on the bed, heavy lids and beading sweat and shallow breaths. One arm held stiff, fist clenched into the thin fabric of the sheets beneath her. The other pinned under her neck, palm twisting upwards as if it had been clutching her forehead in desperation, palliative pressure a futile reprieve from pain uncontrolled.

"Move," she orders, emboldened, stepping past him and into the room. Frustration and pointed reluctance now replaced with long-practiced surety.

She lowers herself to the edge of the bed, back facing the wall. Slowly, silently, she presses the back of her hand to Liara's forehead with a softness he does not recognize. Heat burns his face at the feeling of intrusion, a private moment of something that did not belong to him. Affection?

(It is almost – maternal. He cannot avert his gaze.)

The meld is light, a graze that soothes as much as it explores. Even with the distance, even with the unspoken truce, Aria stiffens at the intensity of the contact. Liara makes a noise that chokes.

( – _unending rage, bristling instinct, hands that loved and feared and touched, hands that burn and break and tremble without control, blood spilled and mourning buried, chemical haze and thrusting blade and dying life, loss that drags and drags and drags across damaged skin – _)

Eyes slide shut, uneven exhales now calm, and Aria pulls away. Irises fade from black to steel blue. Her jaw is clenched, task finished, giving rest when there had been none to find.

She rises to leave.

"Thank you."

She says nothing, hardened gaze locked in silence. Searching. Reticent.

(Warning.)

* * *

"Shepard."

What had once held such warmth now blends with caution. With sadness.

"Liara," he returns, his own failings keeping his tired limbs rooted to where he sits, wary. "I didn't mean any of it."

She joins him on the couch, steps slow, measured. Resignation in her shoulders as she adds her weight.

"Everything you said was true. I wish I knew how to apologize."

He stares, solemn. Long. Sees her face as he refused to, before. There are scars he has never seen.

"Come with me."

Still that sadness.

"I cannot turn my back on Aria."

"Let me handle it," he assures, hint of familiar fervor lining his jaw.

"Shepard," she starts, hesitant, withdrawn. "Are you certain you want me back with your crew?"

He touches her hand, brief, a light press of the palm before retracting. Her skin still softer than his.

"Never doubted it."

* * *

Aria waits in cold stoicism, arms crossed with what Shepard suspects will be certain refusal. But she listens without expression as he offers to buy out the remainder of Liara's debt – credits, favors, new mining equipment, whatever value exchange he can manage. It is a desperate bargain, transparent, but – skilled diplomat that he is – his words weave reason. Respect.

(No threats between them. No need.)

Aria is quiet for almost an entire minute, then –

"T'Soni is free to leave. Take her."

Another beat of silence, expectant. Resolute queen and fighting knight, unwavering forces on the same side of different wars. Fearless allies of spirit. And –

"Wipe that fucking smirk off your face before I change my mind."

"Love you too, Aria."

* * *

Nine months after leaving, Liara once again steps foot onto the Normandy.

She isn't alone.

Their faces are familiar. Friendly. Tired, and a little confused maybe, but familiar. It tightens something in her chest.

Shepard shares all that he can as they gather in his wake, still proud, still resolute, even now. Always honest, always loyal. Always their leader.

He tells them how Liara tracked his Spectre codes, of the mercenary captain and his greed, his ruthless theft of a future he ruined so maliciously, how Liara partnered with Aria T'Loak to take him down. The news of Miranda's death, and Shepard's loss an open wound, brings only a stunned silence.

Jack, leaning against the wall with folded arms, is the first to break it.

"They killed the cheerleader? Over you?" she asks, with something that might have been sadness.

A nod, expression steeled. Reluctant.

"What a shitty way to die."

* * *

She avoids her old office. When she can find sleep, she uses the crew quarters.

Better than being alone.

Better than being alone in a room that feels stolen. Haunted. Torn. Silent. Broken.

Better than being alone with betrayal that never quite manages to kill.

* * *

Kaidan seeks her out, all kind words and broad shoulders and loyal heart. He knows survivor's guilt when he sees it, he says. He knows. He's lived it.

She dispels it quickly, selfish impulse that it is, but her first instinct is to tell him to shut the fuck up.

(Too much time around Aria.)

But, instead, she lets him bleed concern, spilling into the space that had grown between them, accepting the solidarity he extends to her with gratitude. It will not help, not in the way he thinks, but she accepts it nonetheless.

She has lost enough friends.

* * *

Returning to the Sol system is slow work.

Functioning relays in the Attican Traverse are few and far between, and Shepard chooses not to waste the chunks of time spent floating from one system to the next. He seems to favor diplomatic visits to engaging in any type of combat, preferring the simple labor of rebuilding colonies to sowing more destruction. They meet survivors, exchange supplies, repair damage where they can. Sometimes they share drinks and cards and old stories until dawn breaks, the sunrise a final toast to their victory.

(She remains aboard when they visit Feros. She never could face Shiala.)

Liara maintains a lingering suspicion that Shepard is deliberately delaying their return, even if all of his missions are pragmatic. Still, when they finally do cross into Alliance space, he can no longer avoid the debriefing that awaits him. With Arcturus Station still mostly in ruins, Hackett boards the Normandy himself.

(Perhaps he wanted to check on Shepard personally.)

"Doctor T'Soni," he calls without preamble, standing in the doorway of the observation deck, imposing on her sanctuary with rigid confidence.

(Perhaps not.)

"Admiral," she returns, not unkind, but she keeps her seat.

(Omega had robbed her of most of her deference.)

"Specialist Traynor said you might be down here. I expected to see you at the briefing."

"I was not involved in Shepard's mission."

"No. But I understand you made contact with the mercenary group that killed Miranda Lawson."

She holds his gaze, level. Unyielding.

"Yes."

"What was his motive? This, Captain Telian? What did Lawson have that he wanted?"

He is a military leader, through and through. He is powerful, respected. Intimidating. But not subtle.

"You want to know if she compromised the Alliance."

"It's a risk we have to assume. I hoped to keep Shepard out of it, for now."

She exhales, a measured release, familiar knot tightening in her stomach.

"They used her sister Oriana as leverage to force her cooperation. She traded Shepard's Spectre codes in exchange for her sister's life. Telian used those codes to secure smuggling and pirating operations in the Traverse, which got him noticed by Aria T'Loak. Unlucky for him. We partnered to take him down after I discovered what he had done."

"Is Oriana Lawson still alive?"

"No. She was killed as insult to Miranda. He had no intention of upholding his bargain."

"Son of a bitch. He told you all this before you killed him?"

"Aria T'Loak killed him," she corrects, mindless. Avoidant.

"But you spoke to him before he died?"

"Yes."

(It is true enough.)

"Well then I'm glad to hear he got his. Lawson was a valuable asset. Her loss will be felt by the Alliance as much as her friends. I'll need to speak to Shepard about his Spectre status, but I won't take any more of your time."

"Of course," she nods, ever polite.

"I'll be in touch, Doctor."

The elevator is halfway back to the CIC when Liara straightens, realization flaring, knot loosening and unraveling into outright panic. _Captain Telian_, he had said, so carefully phrased as a question, a mere modifier, leading her exactly where he wanted. He might not be subtle, but he played her so, and in her fear of being exposed and humiliated and _judged_, she had missed it.

She did not tell Shepard that name. She hated speaking it, and after their argument, he did not bother to ask. The most detail he could have given at the briefing was that he was turian. No one from the Normandy spoke to Aria, or even set foot on Omega. No one else could have heard it. Liara never shared that name.

But Hackett called him _Captain Telian_, and he never asked how Liara located him, because he did not need to. He already knew.

Panic twists to darkness.

She rises.

* * *

Her hands are at his throat before anyone realizes she is on the bridge.

"Who found Ilos?" she hisses, strangling pressure of her grip blocking his airway. "Who found the Crucible? Who gave you _everything_ during the war?"

He makes a noise, rasping, taken completely unaware by her sudden show of violence. Movement stirs behind her.

"You knew. You knew and you _left_ me there."

Hurried footsteps, a shout, and she is lifted completely off him, shoved aside by an armored arm. The impact jars her, puts distance between her and her target, but it does nothing to dilute the rage. The soldier that had dislodged her is focused solely on a recovering Hackett, massaging his throat and waving away unwanted assistance. Neither of them see her recover her balance. Neither of them hear the snarl, poised to attack.

She moves forward, ignoring the ache that accompanies the glow of blue, lethal, hatred coiling –

Her body is slammed sideways and fully into the floor, torso pinned beneath the hulking weight of thick muscle and dark lines of ink.

Vega.

She reacts without thought, crack of her skull breaking his nose as she smacks her head into his. He grunts, stunned, weight temporarily lifted. She rolls out from under him with a heave of her shoulders, pushing herself to her feet once more.

She makes it only one step before wetness dampens beneath her nose, dull ache spiking to sharp pain. She falters, disoriented, nausea churning in her stomach. Her vision thins.

James catches her before she hits the ground.

* * *

Door locked, window glass darkened, Chakwas studies her decidedly silent patient.

"How are you feeling?" she broaches, testing.

No answer.

Chakwas sighs, uncrossing her arms. She moves around the cot, facing the asari directly. She sits upright, shoulders low, legs hanging from the side of the bed. Years ago, she'd have shifted in discomfort at the confrontational approach of the doctor.

Years ago.

"Hackett agreed to have you brought here instead of the brig. If I approve your discharge, you are free to go. Will you let me examine you?"

A beat, then a nod. Stiff. Gaze locked forward.

"Good. You look absolutely exhausted," chides the other woman, orange glow of her omni-tool spurring to life.

More silence.

"Are you going to tell me why you attacked the Admiral?"

"No. I'm sorry."

Her reply is terse and not even remotely helpful, but technically an improvement from no reply at all. Chakwas takes it in stride, not unused to difficult patients (she'd been treating Shepard long enough, hadn't she?).

"Then will you tell me about your biotics? Vega said you overexerted yourself within seconds."

"I must be out of practice."

The lie is a weak one.

"Liara," prods the human medic, firm. Unfooled. "Have you been experimenting with drugs?"

"What?"

It is the first response she gives that isn't entirely apathetic.

"Whatever you choose to put into your body _is_ your choice, but I am obligated to tell the Commander if your behavior puts you or your squadmates at risk."

"_No_. That is not –"

"I know injection marks when I see them," she reminds the flustered asari, not altogether friendly.

Chakwas has her cornered. Liara knows it. Heat climbs her skin, threatening, mouth dry. Eyes burning into the floor. Her voice is unerringly steady, affected indifference returned.

"The drugs were not my choice."

It is Chakwas' turn to be silent. Her expression is impossible to read. Fragments of detail coming together, tiny little lights that flicker in understanding.

"Then, am I to assume the people that did that are also responsible for your shattered radius?" she poses, results of the scan blinking before her, revealing misaligned bones in the elbow lined with surgical scars.

"Yes."

"Even low doses of biotic inhibitors risk lasting damage. How long did this go on?"

"I…was not in a position to keep track."

Chakwas eyes her with that same scrutiny, same worry.

"Do you experience other side effects? Headaches? Nosebleeds?"

"Yes."

Her face remains impassive. Two gloved fingers extend to stiff blue shoulder, brushing aside the fabric, light touch exposing angry white lines, distinct in their contrast.

"And these bite marks," she prompts, hard edge to her words. "Turian?"

(If only she had been lucid enough to watch Aria eviscerate him.)

Her answer is as clinical as all the rest. Chakwas already knows what she will say.

"Yes."

(Her fucking hands are shaking again.)

"I wish you had told me."

"Omega has surprisingly good medical care. What's done is done."

"Liara," she tries again, appeal more aggressive this time. "You are my friend. Your wellbeing is my primary concern. I cannot clear you for combat if you refuse treatment when you are obviously suffering from –"

"There is no need to clear me."

"And why not?"

This time, she meets the scrutiny without hesitation.

"The loss of my biotics is permanent. I'll never see combat again."

* * *

The weight she carries presses further and further, the longer she lingers.

Shepard, who drowns his mourning in work and solitude. Kaidan, who shares his sympathy, undeserved. Garrus and Chakwas with their hawkish vigilance. Vega, her overprotective watchdog. The rest of the crew, with their stares and whispers. Jack, with her piercing glares that say far more than her coarse language ever could. All this with the shadow of a dead woman hanging between them, noose around her throat, unrelenting.

Piece by piece, nights crawling by, it becomes unbearable.

She means for her departure to be uneventful and unnoticed, but there is no such relief. Shepard stops her in the shuttle bay, blaze of fierce blue and insistent warmth.

"Stay, please. I need you – you know that."

"Thessia needs me more."

For a moment, her features soften, hard lines and determined shoulders giving way, just enough to deepen the ache beating against his chest.

"You don't have to do this."

"I could have killed James. I would have killed Hackett. I cannot risk hurting anyone else."

There is a long pause, sinking. Her choice is made, and he is too late. He fights the impulse to reach for her hands, delicate, so quiet in their strength.

(Would he ever be able to let go?)

She boards the shuttle, alone.

"You know how to find me, Commander."

* * *

Samara is not particularly difficult to track down. Even among the survivors of her own people, her own planet, she carries a reputation that precedes her. All Liara has to do is follow the uneasy whispers.

"Doctor T'Soni," she greets, courteous, but betraying no sign of surprise. "I heard you had returned to Thessia."

Liara had only met the other asari once, and there had been very little time for conversation as they fought (and, she remembers with a reflexive massage of the neck, almost died) to liberate the Ardat-Yakshi monastery from Reaper forces. Now, in such proximity, it is all too easy to see why so many regard her with fear.

Alluring features, yet rigid and poised. Power unleashed with lithe, lethal grace. She is striking.

Liara is not afraid, nor is she assuaged. She is restless.

"Justicar," she returns evenly, head bowed just slightly. "May I come in?"

Samara is unfazed by the unannounced visit. She stands aside, her smile light.

"Of course. My home is always open to any friend of Commander Shepard."

True to her word, Samara is a kind host, offering tea and a place at her table, even with the sun long set behind the peaks of distant mountains. Liara accepts the tea, but refuses to sit down. She can't.

Samara watches, gaze unfaltering, words warm. Omniscient.

"Why have you come, child?"

"You know who I am?" she leads, breaking the silence as she fights not to wring her hands. "What I do?"

"I have heard rumors," concedes Samara, vague. Withholding.

This, apparently, is all the confirmation Liara needed. Her tone is decisive, deliberate.

"You could have killed me the moment I arrived at your door, and you'd have been right to."

"Perhaps. Instead you are in my home, under my protection."

"Why?" she demands, rounding on the Justicar.

Still that gaze, glinting, stripping her bare.

"You are thin," she replies, evasive. "And look as if you have not slept. Are you ill?"

_I killed Miranda_, she rages in her head, thoughts steady, heart screaming. _I killed Miranda and let Aria mutilate and slaughter the only being that knew. I killed Miranda and did nothing to save myself. She betrayed me. And I killed her._

She cannot bring herself to confess just how ill she really is.

"Why do you avoid my question?"

The intensity reflected back at her possesses neither sympathy, nor conviction. Only truth.

"You are young, and have suffered much. Harming you will not bring justice into the world, nor will it ease your pain. I will not offer you judgment. Do not ask me to."

She delivers her command with such finality, so eerily regal in the way she casts aside the expectations of those that seek her out. Liara bristles, unnerved at her own transparency.

"I have never known a Justicar to show mercy."

"You have not asked for mercy."

"No?" counters Liara, frustrated. Lost. "Then what have I asked for?"

Shadow passes across her face, tiny, fleeting, angle of her jaw twisted into something that looks almost – disillusioned.

"Peace."

* * *

_You knew and you left me there_.

James swore that is what she said. Shepard did not witness the altercation himself, but he has replayed the video footage fourteen times already, and still he does not understand. What had the Admiral done that deserved such unrestrained fury?

_You knew and you left me there._

What changed? Left her where? It was his word that stopped them hauling her off to some Alliance lockup, but she never knew that. He never told her. He thought she wanted distance, wanted time to mend whatever it was that was broken. And he was scared. Scared to face her, scared to intrude on her when he had no right to. Would she have stayed, if he had?

_You knew and you left me there._

Chakwas knows more than she says. He does not buy her vague reassurances. He knows how fond she is of Liara, how much she respects her privacy. She isn't lying, but she knows more than she says. One stolen look at her medical records, one glimpse at the injuries long covered up, and now he does too.

_You knew and you left me there._

Aria mocks him only slightly for waiting so long to ask, but she offers him no bullshit. He had been so focused on finding Miranda that he never bothered to learn exactly how it was that Liara became indebted to Omega's ruler - he assumed it was in exchange for killing this mysterious mercenary captain. Aria scorns his misconception, hint of startlingly fierce allegiance lighting her gaze. _I'd have done that for free. _

_You knew and you left me there_.

Hackett knew because Captain Telian was as vain as he was ambitious. Hackett knew because an Alliance blacksite near Khar'shan intercepted several communications between the Hegemony and a mercenary outfit in the Sahrabarik system. Communications boasting the capture of the Shadow Broker and a very steep asking price. Hackett knew and he left her there to rot and die because he could not - would not - spare resources to risk war with the Terminus.

_You knew and you left me there_.

And all of this she suffered because she cared far more than he ever deserved.

* * *

The T'Soni Estate lay abandoned in the outskirts of Armali, what was once resplendent with rolling hills and flowing water now dry and scorched with the marks of war. Luxurious walls of clear glass are dark with dust and the hateful graffiti of those that condemned her mother a traitor.

Liara stands alone at the gate, unwilling heiress, stranger on her own land.

No. Not alone. She feels the presence of the intruder, waiting behind her. Watching.

Aethyta.

Her approach is respectful, cautious even, but familiar.

"Hey, Little Wing."

Liara does not turn around.

"Please don't call me that," she warns, strained, legs weaker every moment. "I don't know who that person is anymore."

(Dead on Alchera. Dead on Hagalaz. Dead on Omega.)

Her father remains silent, offering no apology and asking no questions. Instead the warmth of her hand meets the curve of her daughter's shoulder, words lilting with an edge of softness when she finally does speak.

"You'll find her again."

It breaks something in Liara's chest, months – _years_ – of grief ignored, tightly wound, come undone at a simple touch. The trust it promises, the affection so long denied, sears her with an agony that steals away the last of her strength. Years of buried loss, gaping wounds, and the endless torment of longing and shame released, streaming down her face as her knees hit the ground underneath her.

"Are you going to leave?" she asks with shaking breath, desperate and choking.

Aethyta burns with sincerity, never relinquishing her grip.

"Not a chance in hell, kid."

* * *

"Joker," calls Shepard, usual jovial demeanor replaced with determined haste. "You up for a change of course?"

"Hell yes. Please tell me you have some _actual_ flying for me to do. Where we headed, Commander?"

Shepard claps a hand on his pilot's shoulder, already halfway out the cockpit.

"Thessia."

* * *

It takes him weeks to get to her, none of them easy, all of them restive. It doesn't matter.

He's here now.

She is as guarded as ever, thoughtful, unsure of his presence. He stands close, in the refuge that is her estate, closer than she has felt in a very long time. The heat he radiates is masked only by his wariness, his tension.

"What is it, Shepard?"

He grazes a thumb over the thin pale lines that run the length of her arm, and she is aware, instantly, that he knows.

"I caused you this pain," he laments, rough with regret. Resigned. "I had no idea."

She can find no words, not for that.

"I should have dragged you off Illium when I had the chance, then none of this…"

He leaves it unfinished, unable to endure. Unable to endure the torturous, wrenching thought of what might have been had he told her, from the moment he realized, that her place was by his side. Always.

His voice is thick with emotion, soft and desperate, blinking back tears unshed. Shining.

"Do you still love me, Liara?"

She leans into his shoulder, breath slow as her hand finds his chest, holding him through his pain as he had once done for her. And tells him –

"More than anything."

(He is finally home.)

**END**


End file.
